


Not An Exit

by L_E_D



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dark Humor, Don't try this at home kids, Drunken Shenanigans, Humor, I know this sounds dark but trust it's just a dude testing the limits of his idiot powers, I might add romance at some point idk, Multi, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Teenage Drama, repeatedly jumping off tall buildings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2020-09-26 14:24:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20391160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_E_D/pseuds/L_E_D
Summary: There was an unspoken agreement floating around that made us both embrace the ridiculousness of the situation. Why resist the nonsense life throws at you when you can just… go with it? Interesting things didn’t happen by ignoring depressed immortal college dropouts in corn fields.





	1. Good News for People Who Love Bad News

Right, I guess I should start from the beginning. My name is Jeremy Hoggerman, I’m 26 years old, and I can’t die. I’m not immortal or anything; I think this is an important distinction to make. I’m pretty sure that if I got, say, staked through the chest vampire style, I’d die. I’m not immune to injury or disease, I just can’t seem to get injured in the first place. 

It took me a while to figure out what was going on. I’ve lived a pretty standard life so far, raised in a safe area by a sweet middle class family, so the dangers of everyday life were virtually non-existent. There were a few signs, but they were too ordinary to really stick out as anything more than coincidence.

When I was six years old, my parents decided to take my sister and I on a trip to Disney World. When we got to the gate for our flight, the scanner bugged and refused to process our tickets. It made a big fuss with security, who assumed the worst, before the airport staff finally realized it was a simple technical issue. By the time it became clear the white suburban family from Minnesota wasn’t a terrorist group in disguise, our plane had already taken off, and we were forced to wait for the next one. Our original flight crashed five hours later due to an engine malfunction, killing everyone on board.

When I was eleven, our gym teacher let us have class outside for the last day of school before the summer. We were playing basketball in the big court of the parking lot which, back then, was a Big Deal, capital B, capital D. The parking court was usually reserved for the high schoolers, the big kids, and now that we were finished with elementary school, we got to have a taste of the good life; we were practically grown-ups. 

The actual game didn’t last, eventually morphing into a contest to see who had grown tall enough to dunk. The few that succeeded had to swing from the net just to reach the hoop. When it became my turn to try, I was determined to succeed. I was a whole four feet and eleven inches tall, and I was going to get it on my first try, with enough coolness to be crowned king of the fifth graders. 

What ended up actually happening is that I made it five steps from the net before tripping on my laces and falling face first onto the asphalt, the ball slowly rolling away from my very embarrassed and bruised body. The next kid in line picked up the ball and ran to the net, laughing at my wipeout the whole time. He gave himself the biggest swing he could, jumped up, grabbed the rim and pushed the ball through the net. He looked down at me, his legs swinging in the air, and shouted, “You look super-”

No one got to hear the end of what was surely going to be the burn of the century because, right at that moment, the screws holding the backboard, loosened by dozens of teenagers tarzaning from its net, broke off. The kid and the backboard fell to the ground with a noise that still rivals any scary movie sound effect I encounter to this day. The kid’s skull cracked between the asphalt and the metal ring like an egg off the edge of a frying pan, creating the goriest omelette of all time. But I digress.

When I was sixteen, I got my first part time job at the local fast food joint, where I was barely paid the minimum wage and worked twenty-five hours a week with no benefits. Hurray for capitalism! Luckily for my health, social life, and GPA, I didn’t keep it very long. You see, on a peaceful (read: boring) Tuesday morning (2 AM), while doing my boss a favor (unpaid overtime), I got sent to take the trash out, at the dumpster at the far end of the parking lot. 

I had just dropped the black bag in when I heard a soft meowing coming from somewhere past the giant bin. Being a sucker for cats, I followed the sound. Fast forward fifteen minutes to see me petting a very happy tabby under the Starbucks sign from across the street. The cat was rolling on its back, purring louder than a F-18, with my fingers lost in its fur, both of us having a great time. 

Our little candid picture moment is broken by the end of the world.

Well, what felt like the end of the world at the time. When I got up from by spot, heat burning my eyes, shards of glass cutting my arms and legs, cat potentially vaporized, I realized that what I had mistaken for the apocalypse was actually my workplace exploding into a giant ball of fire. I probably should’ve called someone, but I was too shocked to do anything. I just stood there like a moron, watching my only source of income melt away under the somehow still functioning Starbucks light. 

Eventually, the neighbors called in to report the noise and the cops drove me back home, explaining that the fire was most likely caused by a gas leak. When I got there, my parents were waiting by the door to yell at me for not calling them straight away. Classic. 

Anyway, all that to say that, even though I’d escaped death a couple times in my life, I didn’t really assume anything of it. Shit happens, and sometimes you get lucky. I didn’t realize something unnatural was happening until the age of twenty-one. 

A small foreword before I get to the next part. At the time, things hadn’t been going well for me. No, scratch that, things had been going fucking terribly. I was most likely severely depressed, I was just so caught up in my own head that I didn’t really notice. Imagine that; being too bummed out to notice how bummed out you are.

I reached a real low point; never ate, slept too much, missed all my classes. My boyfriend cheated on me, then blamed me for it as he dumped me, saying I didn’t spend enough time and energy on him. I agreed, too sad and self-deprecating to understand who the real bad guy was in that scenario. My mental state got worse, to the point where I stopped leaving the house altogether. I lost my job, flunked out of college. 

I sat back and watched my sister get married, my dad retired surrounded by proud friends and colleagues, my mom bought that boat she’d wanted for over two decades. Meanwhile, I stayed locked up in my room, the drapes glued shut, my growing pyramids of dirty dishes and clothes my only company. 

Me trying to off myself was only a matter of time, really.

My options were limited; I couldn’t drive, the house didn’t have a garage, or high beams, or even a bathtub. I was starting to consider taking the three and a half hour taxi ride to the nearest train station when my mother got admitted into a clinical trial for sleeping pills. I’d hit the morbid jackpot. 

I waited until everyone was out for the night, sneaked into the medicine cabinet, chugged most of the bottle, went back to bed… And woke up the next morning to my dad asking me if I wanted french toast. 

Through trying to solve the mystery of the disappearing pills, my mom discovered she’d been placed in group B of the trial: the placebo group.

I got pretty desperate after that. I ended up breaking into my neighbor’s shed; he was a hunting enthusiast, and I figured he’d probably have a gun stashed somewhere. I found out that day that “hunting enthusiast” was code for “gun nut”. I grabbed a random handgun and what appeared to be the fitting magazine, hoping the entire time I was in there that the handgrenades in the rack above my head were inactive. I didn’t want to bump into a shelf and accidentally blow up the entire neighborhood. 

I got out in one piece, shoved the stolen gear into my backpack, and began my very long middle of the night trek to the farmlands on the outskirts of town. The goal was no mess, no noise, no one to potentially interrupt me. Getting there took much longer than anticipated, and by the time I reached the center of a random corn field, the sun had begun to rise. I’ll spare you the thoughts that ran through my head that morning, there’s no reason the both of us should be bummed out.

I took the gun out of my bag and loaded it carefully. I stood facing east, watching what I thought was going to be my last sunrise. I had expected the gun to feel extra heavy, but my skin was too numb and my senses were too dull for me to feel anything at all. I pressed the gun against my temple and closed my eyes. Even with them shut, I could still see the sun, its image imprinted behind my eyelids. 

I took a deep breath and pulled the trigger. 

You can probably guess what happened next.There was a small click. My eyes popped open in a frenzy, fixed on the jammed gun in my hands, my whole body buzzing with adrenaline. 

Hands trembling, I stuck out the gun, aiming at nothing. A loud _ bang _ made my ears ring as the bullet tore its way through the tall crops. Chalking it up as a fluke, I turned the barrel back on myself, still determined to end it despite the nerves. I pulled the trigger once again, and- nothing. Just a small _ click _ and a very much alive dumbass holding onto a stubborn gun. Annoyed, I fired one, two, three shots into the empty field. All three bullets flew out, the gun working as God intended. 

I pressed it against my forehead and let out an anguished scream of frustration when it jammed once again. “Why won’t you work, you stupid piece of shit!” I yelled, at the end of my rope. I could feel my knees buckling, from fear or anger, I couldn’t say. I shot forward again and the bullet zipped through the corn, the noise mocking me. My throat was in knots and tears were prickling my eyes as a confused panic started to build up. 

“Holy shit, what the hell is wrong with you?” said a foreign voice. 

Taken by surprise, I jumped up, heart beating a mile a minute. Behind me stood a guy about my age with thick straw blond hair, wearing dirty jeans, mud stained boots, and a wife beater that revealed a painfully obvious farmer’s tan. He was squinting at me through the bright light of the rising sun, arms outstretched my way. “Put the damn gun down,” he said, tone stern. “What did my corn ever do to you?”

Fragile like cracked glass, I held out the gun, grip first. “You do it! I can’t-” I was interrupted by my throat closing up. 

“What,” he said, taking a step back.

“It won’t let me. Please.”

“Look, just put the gun down,” he said, hesitantly walking forward again, like approaching a scared animal, “and we’ll see how I can help you.”

I shook my head, vision blurry with tears. I pointed the barrel at my chest. “Why won’t it work?” I wondered deliriously.

“What are you doing?” the guy asked, panic twisting his features to match my hysteria. “No, no, don’t!”

He wasn’t fast enough to stop me, and I pulled the trigger only for the gun to jam for the nth time. The guy batted the weapon out of my hands and it fell to the ground with a dull thud. Losing my grip on the gun shattered the inch of composure I had left, and I collapsed to my knees, loud sobs escaping me as my shoulders shook.

The guy kicked the gun away and squatted beside me, resting an uneasy hand on my shoulder. “Hey, buddy, c’mon. Let’s get you inside,” he said as he pulled me to my feet. 

Grip strong on my elbow, he dragged me behind him as he marched through the field. We walked for a little while, him muttering about crazy hobos and me crying hard enough to win a Niagara Falls impersonation contest the whole way. Together, we breached the walls of corn and stepped onto a dirt road that led us to the back entrance of an old farmhouse. 

The guy opened its ripped screen door and pushed me inside a wooden kitchen who’s designer would’ve been amazed by the existence of color television. He forcefully sat me down on a dining chair, leaving me for a second to place the gun on top of the museum worthy fridge before sitting on the chair next to mine. He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Okay listen up. You got about three minutes to get your shit together, because then the family’s gonna wake up, and I’m not in the mood to explain the suicidal moron in my kitchen first thing in the morning. Got it?”

My chest heaved, still aching from the tears, and my brain felt too heavy for my skull, and yet I still managed to be insulted. “Moron?”

The guy waved a dismissive hand. “Just control your breathing and do your best to look mentally stable.”

I nodded slowly, feeling like a toddler being explained an algebra II problem. Not long after, just as predicted, thundering footsteps were heard from the floor above. The guy sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Incoming.”

The word was barely spoken when what seemed like enough kids to fill a yellow bus came rushing down the stairs. A virtual storm of whining, yawning, and shoving hit the kitchen as the kids fought their way to the cabinets and fridge, one after the other emerging with various items that could generously be called breakfast. Some immediately ran through the backdoor, toast and fruit shoved into their mouths. Three came to sit at the table with them, fighting over the “good” cereal box, whatever that meant. Two more jumped up to sit directly onto the kitchen counter, swinging their legs and knocking their heels against the cabinet doors. 

The sound of a singular, much heavier set of footsteps were heard, announcing the arrival of one last person into the kitchen. A large, scruffy man appeared in the doorway, sporting a familiar mop of blond hair. “I see you found our shooter.” He turned his tired gaze to me, frowning. “You woke up the whole damn house. Are the deer around here that hard to hit, son, or do I need to call the cops?”

Luckily for me, the guy swooped in. “Nah Dad, it’s okay. He was just having some pretty bad car trouble.”

The guy’s father didn’t seem to buy it, but their interrogation was cut short when the man’s attention switched to his kids. “What did I say about sitting on the damn counter. Off!”

The kids hopped off the ledge, giggles escaping through their mouthfuls of frozen waffles. Their father huffed and leaned down to dig through his refrigerator shelves. “Take him to the shed,” he said, emerging with a gallon of juice, “and help him out. All that damn noise is freaking out the horses.”

The guy stood. “You heard the man, let’s go.”

I followed him out of the house and onto a gravel path, crossing kids running around the property along the way. I felt high, everything processing too fast and too slow all at once. Part of me considered the fact that my suicide attempt had actually succeeded and that all this was a weird sort of afterlife. 

We entered a small cabin covered in chipped red paint and, for the second time that day, I found myself in a stranger’s toolshed, this time with significantly less weapons. Sunlight filtered in through the crack in the old wood and the grime covering the windows, and rusty tools hung along with spiderwebs against the walls. Too exhausted to remain standing, but finding no chairs, I opted to simply sit on the dirt floor. The guy looked down at me. “Do you really gotta sit on the ground?”

“Just be glad I’m not lying down.”

He sighed. “My name is Matt,” he paused, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

I nodded at his hand and turned my gaze back to my lap.

The guy- Matt -sighed again. “This is the part where you tell me _ your _ name and explain why you were trying to shoot yourself in my backyard.”

His words hit an invisible bullseye in my head and dunked my body into a cold bucket of reality. “Oh God,” I whined, breathing speeding back up, “I almost- I was gonna-” I burst into tears, Calm’s shift over and replaced by Hysteria who was much too eager to clock in. 

I heard Matt’s exasperated tone through my sobs “Oh, goddammit. Don’t move!” The shed door slammed shut and I was left crying with myself.

This seems like a good place to take a break. This story is getting progressively more of a killjoy as it goes on, and it’s starting to annoy me. So I’m going to change the topic for a bit, and then I’ll tell you the rest of it. Sounds good? Fantastic.

I’m going to use this small interlude to tell you a little bit about Matthew Ezekiel “why are you trying to shoot yourself” Redford, or Matt, as most people call him.

Matt lived on the family farm with his parents and three siblings until the age of thirteen, when his mother died in a car crash on the drive back from a PTA meeting. Her Jeep skidded on the ice of a rural street, did three donuts, barrel rolled off the road, and set itself and consequently the entire field surrounding it on fire. She’d been giving a lift to two pairs of local parents, and all five of them died in what would later be referred to as the Great Fire Ball Incident of ‘09. Matt’s dad took temporary custody of the newly orphaned kids until the system figured out where to ship them off to. Unfortunately for everyone involved, around the same time, the local government issued massive layoffs after the uncovering of a multi-departmental money laundering operation, leaving the few remaining officials overworked, sleep deprived, and, inevitably, forgetful. The Redford’s case was accidentally swept under the rug, and as the kids had no real immediate family left, no one really bothered to try and dig it back up.

At this point, Matt’s family comprised of: Matt himself, his dad, his three siblings, two additional sisters, and four more brothers. And I have to say, considering the tragic circumstances that brought them all together, they handled it pretty well. They struggled at first, mostly financially, but with the kids helping around the farm on weekends, a few clothing and school supply donations from some friendly locals, as well Matt spending his free time woodworking extra beds and dressers, they pulled through relatively well. 

The growth of the Redford family didn’t end there, however. When word spread of Matt’s father’s “Lady in the Shoe”-like living, people began to come out of the edges of nowhere to hand over babies from backgrounds ranging anywhere from tragic to just plain ridiculous.

To the neverending collection of wayward children were added three toddlers from soon to be deported illegals, one infant previously abandoned on a park bench, two rescues from _ two different _religious cults, and four tweens from abusive foster homes. 

For those of you who haven’t been keeping score, Matt was now living alongside nineteen other children of various ages. Being the eldest, he adapted and, dare I say it, matured to help his father raise so many kids. He became a series of complimentary contradictions; ridiculously patient yet quick to act, impulsive but cautious of the outcome of his actions, skeptical while remaining open-minded. It’s why he stuck by my bullshit back then, and why he, against any person’s sane judgement, still does today. 

Alright, where was I? Oh right, I was on the floor, crying. Matt walked back into the shed with a cereal bar and some milk that tasted more like creme than anything else. I ate slowly, not really tasting the food, but getting progressively calmer as the emptiness left my stomach. After a few minutes of us sitting in silence, I finally felt grounded enough to speak. “My name is Jeremy,” I said, willing the wavering out of my voice. “I went to the field to-uhm…” I swallowed, finding it hard to admit outloud the true degree of my self-hatred and idiocy. “I went there to die, basically.”

Matt simply stared at me, unsurprised and unimpressed by my explanation.

“I don’t know what you want from me, man,” I sighed, exhausted. “It’s not like it matters anyways. I couldn’t do it.”

“What, you chickened out, so you wanted me to do it for you?”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean,” I said, shaking my head. “The gun kept jamming.”

“No, it fucking didn’t. Factory workers in China heard it go off. You know, normal people are asleep at four in the fucking morning.”

“I mean it would only jam when I was shooting at me.”

“What,” he deadpanned.

“I couldn’t shoot myself because the gun wouldn’t go off when it was pointed at me. It only fired when I shot at other stuff.”

“What.”

“Dude, I’m not going to say it a fourth time.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “I heard you, you’re just not making any damn sense.”

“You’re telling me.”

“How many times did you try? Maybe you just got lucky.”

“Four, five times maybe? It was a bit too consistent for it to be coincidental.”

There was a moment of silence when we both had the same thought; Matt spared me the awkwardness of having to say it out loud. “So what,” he said, voice dripping with what felt like necessary disbelieving sarcasm, “you’re some sort of magic... person who’s immune to guns?”

“That, or I have a magic gun that can’t shoot at a person.”

Matt leaned back on his elbow, swishing stray bangs from his eyes. “Maybe you just can’t get injured, yanno? Like a super defense super power or something.”

I glanced down at the large scar on my right arm, the proof I was willing to do almost anything to win a game of Wii Sports tennis. “No, I can _ definitely _ get hurt.”

He nodded pensively. His willingness to believe me and accept the potential supernatural element of it all surprised me a bit, but not as much as it should have. There was an unspoken agreement floating around that made us both embrace the ridiculousness of the situation. Why resist the nonsense life throws at you when you can just… go with it? Interesting things didn’t happen by ignoring depressed immortal college dropouts in corn fields.

“Anything like this ever happen to you before?” he asked.

“You mean barely escaping death?”

“Yeah”

I thought about it. “I tried to overdose on pills, but just ended up chugging a bunch of placebos. Once, I missed a gas explosion by a few minutes. When I was a kid, I skipped my turn at the basketball net and the next kid who used it got crushed to death under it.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah, it was really gross.”

Matt wrinkled his nose, then shook his head. “Alright, let’s say you can’t die. Could we test that somehow?” I opened my mouth to answer, but he was faster. “Without using the gun.” My mouth snapped shut. 

“I could throw myself off a high roof,” I offered.

He hopped to his feet, excitement making his eyes go wide. “Or, you could do a flip from a high roof! Yeah! I could show you how, it’s easy.”

I stood up with him, legs only mildly wobbly. “Yeah, but I could still break all my bones and survive.” I began to pace slowly, gaze focused on the dirt floor. “I would have to do it in a place with no one around. That way, if I broke all my bones, I would still die, because no one would help me.”

“Wait, what?”

I looked up at him, walking faster. “I can still get hurt, but, theoretically, I can’t die. So, I need to make sure that any potential injury would kill me, that way-”

“You wouldn’t get hurt at all in the first place,” he said, nodding in understanding.

“Bingo.”

“But I would be there, right? I don’t think-”

“Then you have to promise me,” I interrupted, stopping in my tracks, “that you won’t call an ambulance if I get hurt.”

He shifted, uneasy. I stepped closer, forcing him to look at me. “The only way I won’t get hurt is if you refuse to call for help, no matter what. Promise me.”

Matt swallowed, gaze hardening. “I promise.”

I rocked back, satisfied. In my mind, there were no real downsides here; either I proved I had a super power, or I died in agony. Win-win. “Fantastic. Now we just need to find a tall building where no one can interfere.”

“There’s always the barn.”

“What about the kids? Won’t they be able to see me?”

Matt waved away my concerns. “They’ll all be leaving for school in an hour,” he said with a smirk, “which gives me plenty of time to teach you how to do a flip.”

It’s only once we actually got to the top of the hundred and fifty feet tall barn that the insanity of our plan properly hit us. We stood near the top of the ladder, where the pointed roof flattened, staring down at the field with our arms crossed. “This is fucking stupid.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re gonna die.”

“Most likely.”

“Still want to go through with it?”

“Oh yeah, for sure.”

“Alright,” said Matt, rubbing his hands together, “here’s how you do this. Face away from the edge, put all your strength in your legs, and throw yourself backwards. When you’re midair, tuck in your knees, pass them over your head, and try to land on your feet. Got it?”

“Yes,” I lied. I turned around, my back to the dumbest decision I had ever considered making. 

“Wait,” said Matt, “one more thing.”

He knelt over the top of the ladder, the only safe way down, and pulled a screwdriver from one of his deep jean pockets. He made quick work of the screws holding up the ladder, and it fell to the dirt ground with a thud. “There,” he said, standing back up, “now I can’t go call for help even if I wanted to. I don’t got a phone on me and we’re too far from the house for dad to hear anything. The only way I can come back down is if you land uninjured and put the ladder back up.”

I remained silent, staring with wide eyes at the death of my only safety net. Matt waved a hand before my static face. “Don’t act so shocked, we agreed!”

“I just can’t believe we climbed this high on a ladder that was only up because of two inch long screws.” 

“Dude, focus.”

I turned back around, more certain by the second that this much stress in one day would kill me before I’d have the chance to jump. My palms were sweating, my heart was pounding, my head was stuck in a loop of _ I’m not gonna throw up, I’m not gonna throw up, I’m not gonna throw- _

Matt coughed. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m n-, I mean, yeah.”

I bent my knees, and threw myself backwards. I don’t know if I actually ended up doing the flip. Matt likes to say that I actually succeeded, even if it was a pretty clumsy attempt. All I can remember is my brain immigrating to my chest, pushing my heart down to my stomach and my stomach to my feet, then all my organs returning to position too fast, like a taut rubber band set loose. Then I hit the ground, miraculously but unsurprisingly on my feet. At that point I registered three things. 

  1. The earth beneath my feet was remarkably cushy.
  2. The impact made my whole body vibrate like a tuning fork.
  3. Someone was screaming like a banshee at a frat party.

“HOLY SHIT THAT WAS FUCKING AWESOME OH MY GOD!”

Dizzy, my ankles and knees throbbing, I looked up to see Matt hooting and hollering, practically jumping up and down with glee. “I HAVE TO FILM THIS SHIT NEXT TIME. HOLY! FUCK!”

I answered the only thought my bruised brain could produce. “I’m not dead.”

“FUCK YEAH YOU’RE NOT!”

I waited a few seconds for the numbness to leave my limbs before taking cautious steps forward and repositioning the ladder against the barn. Matt grabbed it quickly, practically flying down it to join me. Smiling wide, he grabbed my shoulders. “Dude! You’re immortal.”

“I’m immortal,”I repeated in disbelief.

“You’re immortal!” he said again, laughing with a contagious euphoria.

I let out a giggle as the information sank in, before stopping myself with a hiss of pain. “Ow, I really need to sit down, my legs are killing me.”

“Right, yeah! Sit here, I’ll be right back.”

I sat leaning against the barn in its shadow, with my legs outstretched and my head lolling with exhaustion, the rush of adrenaline dissipating slowly. I was soon joined by Matt, who shoved a cooler in my hand as he sat by my side, his shoulder resting against mine. “I would’ve gotten beer, but this is the only alcohol dad allows in the house.”

I glanced at the label and snorted. “It has a whopping 0.5%.”

“Hey, don’t laugh,” he replied with a smile, “with nineteen minors in the house, you can never be too careful.”

“I mean, that makes sen- did you say _ nineteen _?!”

“Mh-hmm,” he nodded, opening his drink with a hand-held bottle-opener.

“And you’re still sane? Man, now that’s a real superpower.”

He uncapped my cooler with a grin. “I’ll drink to that,” he said, tapped the neck of his bottle against mine’s. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

It felt like drinking liquid sugar, but I’d had worse. I turned to Matt, properly looking at him for the first time. He had a wide jaw, thin eyes, the scruff of a man too lazy to shave every morning, and the confident smile shared by most big brothers. I figured my lonely ass had found a friend; he’d indulged me at my lowest point, so there was nowhere to go but up.

“Alright,” he said after another sip, “you gotta tell me more about the basketball thing you talked about earlier.”

We talked for a long time. A really, really long time. Matt left twice to get more drinks and once to bring back homemade sandwiches, a personal creation he affectionately called the “Jaw Breaker”. I had to eat it by layers, unable to open my mouth wide enough to fit in the virtual tower of unidentifiable meats, vegetables, condiments, and bread all at once without potentially dislocating my jaw. Matt, on the other hand, had no issues whatsoever; I suspect he might be part snake. “What’s in this thing?” I asked.

“The usual stuff,” he answered through a bite, “ham, turkey, chicken, smoked salmon, rabbit, moose…”

“Wait, really?”

He swallowed. “No,” he deadpanned, “and I’m not telling you either. It’s a family secret.”

I’m too keen on eating food I don’t recognize, and it probably showed on my face, because he continued. “You will eat your mystery meat and like it.”

So I ate the sandwich, not feeling up to argue. In all fairness to Matt, it tasted amazing.

It became apparent as our conversation went on that my depressive episode had made me forget a lot of things I used to love. We spoke of music and movies, and much too often I’d things like “I used to love that band, I haven’t listened to them in so long” or “man, that scene was amazing, but I can barely remember most of it”. It was as if the hobby part of my personality had run out of power and Matt was walking around my brain turning on the light switches. 

He drove me home that afternoon before the kids came back from school in a green pickup truck two potholes away from falling into pieces, its dashboard turned into a mini light show by the constantly blinking safety warnings. Matt ignored it, unbothered, and frankly, I wasn’t really worried either. I mean really, what was the worst that could happen?

He dropped me off with plans to meet again the next day and the promise to think of suicidal things to try out. The words had been dark, but the tone light, as if we’d been discussing possible games to play, which, in a weird way, I guess we had been. 

Don’t get me wrong. The day hadn’t magically cured my mental state; things still felt more grey than they were. But that night, for the first time in almost a year, I went to bed with a blissfully empty head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was as fun to read as it was to write
> 
> chapter title by Modest Mouse


	2. Too Dumb to Die

Okay kids, strap in, because this is where the story goes from kind of weird to downright bizarre. My mind might’ve been calm when I’d gone to sleep, but that sure as hell changed when I actually got there. 

I was dreaming. I knew I was dreaming, because when I looked down, I couldn’t see my feet, like a character in a video game. It was nighttime, and I was back in the cornfield. The whole place was covered in ash, and all I could see for hundreds of yards was infinite rows of greyed out corn. I stood in the middle of it all, in a ten feet wide patch of dirt, like a crop circle left by an underwhelmingly small UFO. 

The field was being moved by a strong breeze; it blew the ash off the crops in waves of dust. For some reason, however, it didn’t reach me. I couldn’t feel it, couldn’t even hear it. I felt as though I was trapped inside a snowglobe. Minus the snow. And the tacky miniaturized tourist trap. And the violent shaking. 

I looked up; the sky was a mesmerizing collection of stars, turquoise nebulae bathing the field in a frozen blue light.

“ **Beautiful, isn’t it** ?” said a voice behind me.

I turned around. There, in the center of the crop circle, was a previously absent park bench. Sitting on it was the dark shape of a person, like a three dimensional shadow. Its edges were fuzzy and ever shifting, like the darkness that composed it needed to perpetually readjust itself to maintain a human-like form. “ **Why don’t you come sit?** ” It spoke without moving, its voice high and rough; it reminded me of a whiskey voiced woman, a bit. I couldn’t recognize it, but it felt familiar, and it immediately put me at ease.

I sat by its side, and the shadow looked at me. Well, it turned its head in what felt like my direction, so I assumed it was looking at me. I tried to return its “gaze”, but quickly gave up. Looking at it was like trying to pay attention in math class: it made my mind ache and my attention waver into emptiness. So I stuck to observing the alien stars as it spoke to me. “ **Are you afraid?** ”

I smiled. “After today, you don’t really scare me.”

“ **You know who I am?** ”

“You’re Death.”

Death hummed and the breeze picked up, shifting the ash and stars alike. “ **Am I what you expected?** ”

“I don’t think I expected anything,” I answered after a beat of silence. I’d always considered death an escape, but the details of it had never concerned me all that much. “Are many people disappointed?”

“ **Don’t you think it is preferable for me to appear as what a person may expect, to limit the fear of the unknown?** ”

That made sense I supposed; anything to relax those coming face to face with Death itself. 

“ **Would you like to see my favourite iteration of myself?** ”

Curiosity got the best of me. “Sure.”

The shadow vanished from my side. Before me now hovered a creature from what had to be the deepest recesses of hell. It flew with six wings and stared through me with six eyes, burning like sentient flames. It was a being of destruction, something beyond anything I was ever meant to see. It flapped its wings and part of me turned to dust under the force of it. I wanted to scream, but my mouth remained shut as it opened its own, letting out a sound that lasted forever, a shout full of power and fear that sounded strangely like my own voice…

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone, and the shadow was back, sitting on the bench. This version of Death had no face, yet I could tell it was smiling. “ **What do you think?** ”

I swallowed thickly. “I think I seriously lack imagination.”

“ **Ah, why would you worry about that? Isn’t it normal for people like you to see me as this?** ”

“I don’t understand.”

“ **Isn’t it logical for the ones who crave it to see death as… nothing?** ”

I felt small, insignificant, extinguishable. I’d believed I had escaped Death, yet it sat by my side, aware of who I was, what I wanted, what I had failed to do. “Why not take me?”

“ **You cannot truly expect humans to be the only ones that make mistakes, can you?** ”

“I guess not,” I admitted, “but you let me go so many times…”

“ **What if I told you that, once a soul escapes my grasp at its creation, it is impossible to get it back without help?** ”

At first I thought it meant mine or another person’s help, but I quickly dismissed that idea. Afterall, I had tried to help it; I’d tried, over and over, to end my life. If neither myself, nor outside forces could aid Death, then that could only mean one thing. “There are others like you?”

“ **Ah, isn’t that always the question? What lies beyond the worldly reach of human senses?** ”

I frowned at the stars. I felt as I did back in ninth grade, reading the infuriating dialogue between Alice and that stoned caterpillar. “So, you don’t have any help?”

Death said nothing. 

“But that makes no sense. Why can no one help you? If every time you messed up, someone became immortal, the world would’ve noticed by now.”

“ **Why do you think you are not the first case for which no help could be given?** ”

“Then why won’t they help now?” I asked, too loudly, irritated. “What’s so different now?”

There was a long moment of silence.

“ **We are busy. Things in your world are coming to a head. We must be ready for what is to come.** ”

The words made me shake, my whole being rejecting the very idea of being where I was. My body broke and my bones pushed against my skin, trying to escape as my hold over the entire dream began to crumble. 

“ **I am sorry.** ”

I woke up with a start, sitting upright in my bed and panting, body covered in a cold sweat. My bedroom door was ajar, and opened wider as my father pushed against it, stepping inside with a steaming coffee mug in hand. “Good m- woah, are you feeling alright?”

I nodded, willing the shock out of my body.

“You sure? You’re looking a little pale.”

I forced a smile. “I’m good, dad. I just need a coffee.”

“You sure? You were out for a while yesterday, maybe you caught something.”

I nodded again. My dad walked to my bed and shoved the mug under my nose. “Take it, there’s a whole pot in the kitchen anyway.”

I grabbed it from him and rank it greedily, letting it warm me from the inside out. I hadn’t noticed just how cold I had been; I felt my limbs prickle and the goosebumps melt away as I stood out of bed, still sipping my coffee. 

My dad and I joined my mom in the kitchen; she was reading the newspaper, drinking from her own mug. She smiled wide when I sat at the table. “Jeremy!” she said, voice still raspy with sleep, “are you joining us for breakfast? It’s been so long.”

Sitting beside her, I realized I had missed having breakfast with my parents. “Yeah, mom,” I answered, smiling back at her. “Can you pass me the sugar? This mug is dad’s, and he likes his coffee tasting like used motor oil.”

We spoke for a while, mostly talking about the news in the paper.  We were halfway through the weekly crossword when a honk was heard from outside. An ancient green pick-up truck parked against our sidewalk could be seen through the living room window, Matt waving from the driver’s seat.

I stood up in a rush, stumbling on my apologies as I left the kitchen. I heard my mom call out to me from the table. “Sweetie, who is that?”

“Just a friend, mom,” I yelled back from my room, hastily putting on jeans, “I promised we’d hang out today, I didn’t see the time.”

I was in the middle of trying to beat the world record for speed toothbrushing when she appeared in the bathroom doorway. “A friend? Is he new?”

“Yeah,” I said through the foam in my mouth. I spoke the first lie I could think of, “we met at school.”

“School?” said my mom, raising her eyebrows, “But you haven’t been to school in eight months.”

Had it really been that long? Being a shut-in sure made time fly. “Uh… Well, we weren’t really close in school, but we met again yesterday,” I quickly explained, shoving deodorant under my shirt, “we hit it off and said we’d hang out again today.”

I spun around my room, searching for my phone, keys, and wallet. 

“At least he’s getting out of the house,” I heard my dad tell my mom.

I rushed to the front door and slipped in my shoes.

“Stay safe!”

“Will do!” I promised, shutting the door behind me.

I jogged across the lawn and hopped in the passenger seat of Matt’s car. “Hey!”

We took off from the curb. “G’morning.”

Matt drove with one hand, the other clutching onto a thermos. He looked like he’d been up and about for a while now; his jeans already featured splashes of mud and short pieces of straw were buried in his hair and beard. 

The inside of the truck was surprisingly cleaner than the day before. “Why does your car smell like mint?”

Matt’s features scrunched up in confusion, only to switch to amusement when he glanced my way. “You got toothpaste on your nose.” 

I wiped my face, embarrassed. Desperate to change the subject (and to make the mocking smile on Matt’s face disappear), I said the first thing that came to mind. “So, how are you going to try to kill me today?”

Matt snorted. “I got a few ideas, I’m not sure which one to try first. We already know you’re immune to guns and fall damage, so I thought drowning and poisoning could be next.”

A list of every toxic substance I was aware of flashed through my mind, and my nose wrinkled in disgust; I doubted any of them would be fun to swallow. The thought made me giggle. “What are you laughing at?” asked Matt.

“It’s just ridiculous,” I said, shaking my head, “you’re talking about poisoning me, and my first concern was that bleach would probably taste bad- Oh no!”

“What?” said Matt, concerned.

I closed my eyes in a wince. “The gun! It’s still on top of your fridge, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So! I need to put it back in the shed before my neighbor realizes it’s gone!”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” said Matt, “the way you talked about it, he has enough guns to start his own army. I don’t think he’ll notice if one of ‘em is gone.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” I conceded. Still, I was nervous. What if he  _ did  _ notice the gun was gone? What would happen then? What if he called the cops? My fingerprints were all over the place. I’d be found out for sure. And then what? Would they think I tried to kill someone? What if I was sent to pri-

“Would you freaking relax?” said Matt, “I can feel you freaking out from here. Look, we’ll do this quick, it’ll be fine.”

He stepped on gas, making the car jump forward with a sound that would’ve worried a mortal man. After a ten minute ride that made me pray to the inventor of the seatbelt more times than I’d like to admit, we parked in the dirt driveway leading to the Redford farm. 

We’d barely made it out of the truck when a small silhouette appeared seemingly out of nowhere. It pounced on Matt’s shins, flute-like voice crying out excitedly. “Mattie, Mattie, look what I got!”

A girl who couldn't have been older than five was now hopping up and down at his feet, thick brown curls bouncing and overalls jingling with every jump. She was proudly brandishing a bouquet of dandelions. Matt smiled. “Those are some pretty flowers, Mimi.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “I’m giving one to everyone!”

“Are you sure you have enough for everyone?” asked Matt, crouching down before the girl.

“Yeah! I already gave one to Rosa, and Francisco, and Rebecca, and Flo, and Benji, and-and-and Sebastian, and-”

“Woah, that’s a lot of flowers,” interrupted Matt.

“I gave two to Nathan,” said Mimi in a conspiratorial tone, “don’t tell Jonathan, or he’ll be mad.”

“I promise, I won’t tell.”

“Good,” she said. She plucked a flower from the bundle in her hand and stuck it into Matt’s beard. Satisfied with her work, she ran off, but not before greeting me with a “Hello, mister” as she sprinted past the car. 

I smirked at Matt as he rose up from his crouched position. He let out an inquisitive hum and I pointed to his now flowered beard. “You’re pretty,” I sing-songed. 

“Sure am.” 

We walked to the house, passing groups of kids going about their business. We crossed paths with a girl on a bike, towing behind her a cart full of heavy looking burlap sacks, followed by two toddlers dragging around a stubborn goat that kept bucking its hooves into the ground. I was impressed at how independent they all seemed to be. The whole farm worked like a well-oiled machine, productive like a beehive. 

As we reached the building, a quick look through the window revealed that Matt’s father was sitting at the kitchen table, filtering through stacks of paper bills and that the gun was still, thankfully enough, resting peacefully atop the fridge. Matt hummed pensively. “He’s not gonna get off that chair for at least another few hours. We need to find a way to distract him so I can grab the gun.”

“I mean, sounds easy enough.”

“It won’t be.”

I turned to him, concerned. He sighed, staring at the farm, eyes searching. “Raising twenty kids has given him fantastic ears, like…”

“A bat?”

“Yeah, like a bat. He’s like a Batman/Mary Poppins hybrid. Also, the house is crazy old, it’s impossible not to make noise when you walk around.”

“So what are we supposed to do?”

Matt’s eyes suddenly lit up and, instead of answering, he waved over a trio of kids coming back from the field. “Benji, Seb, Amy, come over here!”

The kids ran up to us, each one’s face dirtier than the last. “I don’t know what you heard,” said the first one, a tall boy with pale hair, “but it wasn’t me.”

“Don’t say that” growled the second one, shaking her red head, “you’ll get us in trouble!”

“No, I’ll get  _ you _ in trouble,” protested the first boy, “I already said it wasn’t me.”

Before the girl could argue, the third kid, who was by far the shortest, pointed at me. “Wasn’t he in our kitchen yesterday?”

“Yes, his name is Jeremy, he’s a friend. Jeremy, this is Benjamin,” Matt said, motioning to the tall boy, “Amy, and Sebastian,” he concluded as he nodded at the shortest. “I need a favor from you guys.”

Benjamin gave us a suspicious squint. “What do you want?”

“I need you to make enough noise to get dad out of the kitchen.”

“I don’t know…” said Sebastian. “He sounded pretty serious this morning when he told us to leave him alone.”

Amy nodded. “He’s going to be  _ really _ mad if we do this.”

“She’s right,” said Benjamin, “we’d be taking a big risk here.”

“What will you give us if we help?” asked Amy.

Matt let out a deep sigh. “I’ll give you each ten dollars.”

Three large angelic smiles responded to his offer. “Deal!”

So there I was, just a few moments later, crouching beneath the window with the subtlety of a helicopter crash at a funeral, my only instruction to bolt for the car when the gun was handed to me. 

Matt had stepped into the kitchen a few seconds prior; I could only hear what was being said once he’d slid open the window pane above my head. “... smells like something died in here,” Matt was saying, “You’ll end up marinating in your own sweat.”

There was an annoyed grunt after the sound of a chair scraping the ground. “Why are you here? I thought I made myself clear about bothering me when I’m taking care of the damned bills.”

“Yeah well, you haven’t moved in six hours.”

“And it’s gonna take another six if you keep bothering me,” Matt’s father groaned.

“Sorry, I just needed to talk to you.”

“And it couldn’t wait ‘til tomorrow?”

“Uh, no, I guess not.”

There was an awkward pause before his father huffed. “Well, spit it out, son.”

“Uh…”

It then became painfully obvious to me that Matt had no plan. The bones were all there: talk to dad, create a distraction to lead him outside, give Jeremy the gun, bask in the glory of your success. The details, however…

“I need some money.”

The sound of a pen hitting the table. “You need money?”

“Yeah! Yes. This is why I needed to tell you before you finished the bills. I need money.”

“What for?” asked his dad. The skepticism in his voice made me cringe.

“It’s for, uh, for-” said Matt, scrambling for an idea, “equipment! I need money ‘cus I want to buy some equipment for, uh, sports! I’m joining a sports team, and I need to buy the uniform, and stuff.”

“Sports? That’s a new one.” His father sounded pleased. “What are you gonna be playing, son?”

“Uh…” hesitated Matt, “s-suh-synchronised swimming!”

I muffled my laughter and mourned the fact that I would never know what Mr. Redford’s face looked like at that very moment.

“Why.”

I could hear Matt shuffling around in his seat. “I like- the hats.”

“The hats,” repeated his father in disbelief.

“...Yes.”

“What-”

Mr. Redford’s question was interrupted by a sound not unlike a firecracker going off, followed by a series of high pitched screams and panicked mooing. I heard Matt’s father immediately jump out of his seat and leave the house in the direction of the noise. The door slammed shut behind him and Matt’s voice reached me through the window. “Oh, thank God.”

I was handed the gun not a second later, and I quickly made my way back to the truck. I could still hear the loud argument that was taking place at the site of the “explosion”.

“Can someone please explain to me why there’s paint everywhere?”

“Benji blew up a can of spray paint!” wailed one of the kids.

“It was Seb’s idea,” protested Benji, “he was the one who said we should repaint the barn.”

“But I’m not the one who took out the spray paint,” calmly replied Sebastian. “That was all Amy.”

She scoffed. “You’re the one who said it was taking too long. And Benji’s the one who blew it up. This isn’t my fault.”

“Lies!” screamed Benji, tone borrowed straight from daytime television courtrooms. “None of this would’ve happened without the paint. If anything, this is more your fault than mine.”

The rest of the argument was drowned out by a cacophony of screams and protests that went muted when I locked myself into the truck. I was soon joined by Matt, who took up the driver’s seat and immediately started up the car.

I opened my mouth to speak as we began to roll out of the driveway, but I was stopped by Matt’s raised hand before I could say anything. “Not a word.”

“I was just going to ask how they blew up the can of spray paint.”

“Oh,” said Matt, shoulders sagging with relief, “they shot at it with a BB gun.”

I bit my tongue, trying my best to remain quiet as we embarked onto the highway. We passed two exits before came the point where I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “The hats.”

“Shut up.”

****

So there we were, standing side by side before a dozen displays of bottles of booze at eleven in the morning, in a liquor store two towns over. 

“Why are we here again?” I asked. 

“To buy enough alcohol to kill you.”

“I know that. I mean, why are we  _ here _ , an hour away from home.”

“I didn’t want to bump into anyone we knew,” said Matt. 

I nodded, happy he had thought ahead; the idea of meeting an acquaintance hadn’t even occurred to me. Putting the gun back in the shed had been almost too easy, I’d forgotten we still needed to be discreet. We lived in a relatively small town, and I didn’t want to risk someone ratting me out to my parents.

Matt grabbed a shopping cart. “You sure you have enough to pay for all this?”

“Depends on how much you plan on getting.”

“I looked it up and did the math based on your body type. If you down twenty-five shots in one sitting, you got about a 50/50 chance of dying.”

“So I need to do about thirty, thirty-five.”

“Let’s say forty, just to be safe.”

I laughed. “Yeah, just to be safe.”

Safety, as it turns out, is a very relative concept. What Matt considers perfectly safe (having a drink with a friend in a cozy tree house), I tend to see as the opposite (getting inebriated in a poorly built cabin fifteen feet above the ground).

“Don’t look so nervous, no one can see us up here.”

The wood creaked loudly under my weight.

“Yeah. Visibility, that’s my big concern.”

The sun was setting out the crooked treehouse window, and our height gave us a nice view of the farmhouse at the other end of the cornfield. Matt took out two shot glasses from his jean pocket, which he set down next to our two large bottles of vodka.

“You’re drinking too?” I asked, somewhat taken aback.

“Of course,” he said, pouring the first shot, “gotta stop myself from getting help somehow. I figured getting plastered should do the trick.” He handed me my shot. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

The rest of the evening is mostly a blur. And what I do remember, well… I’ll let you judge for yourself.

_ Shot count: 3 _

“He dumped me when he found out,” I said with a sigh. 

“Wait, wait.  _ He  _ dumped  _ you _ ?” Matt exclaimed, eyes wide. “He’s the one who fucking cheated, shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

I kept my head down, fumbling with my empty shot glass. “No, he was right to do it, it was my fault.”

“Dude, that ain’t right, you got some self-esteem issues.”

My gaze shot back up at that. “What? No, I’m serious- this one’s on me.” I felt guilt and unease bubbling up my throat. “I mean, I was never around; I’m a depressed hermit. It would’ve been ridiculous of me to blame him for finding someone else. I didn’t deserve his attention.”

Matt rested his weight on his palms behind him, giving me a calculating stare. “What did you major in again?”

“Psychology.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Huh? Oh, I flunked out.”

“Shocking.”

_ Shot count: 7 _

“Okay,” I said, stretching out the word, “sobriety check time.”

Matt frowned. “What happens if I don’t pass?”

“I’m cutting you off,” I said, trying to sound as definitive as possible, “I need a clean liver available for my transplant.”

Matt nodded in drunken agreement..

“Alright, name all of your siblings, from youngest to oldest.”

“Mathilda, Francisco, Rosa, Mimi,” he began, face set in concentration, “Jonathan, Nathaniel, Gabriel, William, Maria, Mary…” He paused to breathe, and I began counting the listed names on my fingers. “Seb, Dorothy, Benji, Amy, Madison, Abigail, Flo, Tommy, and Rebecca.”

I finished my count. “That’s only nineteen, I thought you said you were twenty.”

“Well yeah, I wasn’t gonna count myself. My ego isn’t that big.”

“Oh, right.”

“You gotta focus, ‘Remy,” he said, patting my head.

I nodded. “Focus.”

_ Shot count: 12 _

“No, you’re doing it wrong,” I groaned, frustrated. “Look at my feet.”

“I am, I am” said Matt, equally annoyed, “I’m copying everything you’re doing.”

“You’re not supposed to copy me, you’re supposed to move, uh,” I tried to think of the best wording to get my point across, “complimentarily to me.”

Matt momentarily let go of my shoulders. “What does that even mean!”

“It means we need to move together.”

“I thought you said we had to move in a square formation.”

“A square formation together.”

I stumbled to my phone, trying and failing to keep my balance now that Matt no longer held me at arms length, and restarted the random piece of waltz music I had found on Youtube. We returned to our dancing position, both of us involuntarily swaying back and forth. “Okay, one more time,” I said, swallowing vodka flavoured spit, “when I move back, you move forward.”

“Okay.”

One step back, one step left, one step forw- “Ow! Would you watch your feet?”

_ Shot count: 15 _

“You fucking cheated!”

My eyes widened at the accusation. “What? No I didn’t.”

“Yeah you did,” reaffirmed Matt, pointing aggressively at the paper, “it’s the only explanation.”

“You can’t cheat at tic-tac-toe.”

Matt leaned across the now scratched out game, so close his nose was practically pressing against mine. “I demand a rematch,” he growled, before losing his balance completely and falling face first onto the paper. His voice sounded muffled against the floor. “Gimme the pen.”

“Oh my God.”

_ Shot count: 17 _

I was lying on my back with the room spinning around me when I remembered. “We should do another sobri- sob-, we should check if you’re too drunk.”

Matt agreed with a mumble. We both sat up, which did nothing to slow down the rotation of the walls. “Young to old,” I said, resisting the urge to vomit, “go!”

“There’s , uh, Mathilda, Franscico, Maria, wait-no, fuck.”

“Try again.”

He closed his eyes. “Mathilda, Francisco,” he listed, enunciating each syllable, “Rosa, Maria, Sebastian, Benji- wait fuck, wrong Maria, dammit.” He sighed in defeat. “No more for me.”

“Okay cool, now pass me the bottle.”

_ Shot count: 26 _

Matt was singing along to a Weezer song. I tried to smile, but I couldn’t feel my face.

_ Shot count: 37 _

“Jeremy, get off the edge. Jeremy, Jeremy, knock it off, don’t- NO!”

  
  
  
  


A voice from above. “Moron.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uni is killing me ahahaha


	3. Death Penalties Over Life Sentences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no beta we die like men

The heat death of the universe.

That’s what I think about these days. The motherfucking heat death of the universe. Now, I know what you’re thinking.  _ Wow Jeremy, how uncharacteristically dramatic of you.  _ But can you really call it “being dramatic” if it’s justified? 

I know I don’t usually talk about the present. Don’t worry, we’ll get back to the story in a bit, but for now, I’m going to indulge in my current panic instead of my older ones.

It’s been five years since that morning I met Matt, five years since I discovered my “immortality”, or whatever you want to call it. A lot of things have changed during that time; Mimi grew up to be a witty kid, smart enough to beat me in chess (I don’t like to bring it up, it goes straight to her head), my dad now has a full head of grey hair, and my sister’s got two kids of her own. Hell, even Matt’s different today; he’s gotten taller by a good inch and a half, his beard grows back fast enough to make him look like blond santa every two weeks or so, and his face is… sharper? More defined? I’m not sure how to describe it, but he actually looks like an adult now.

This is where the fear comes in. And I know you can probably guess what I’m about to say, but I’ll specify anyway for the slow kids at the back of the class.  _ I’m exactly the same as I was five years ago. _

I only realized last month, back when I was helping Matt’s sister Flo fill in her college applications. We were in my apartment’s tiny kitchen, and the angle she was sitting at what just right for me to see the Redford family picture on the wall behind her. 

Picture Flow what tiny, with frizzy red hair and a huge smile made shiny by the cheapest braces on the market. Real Flo was another person entirely, with kind eyes and a perpetually relaxed expression, her entire demeanor radiating a soothing energy her child self would’ve never been capable of achieving. 

My eyes kept darting from the frame to her face, each look making me notice more and more differences between past and present. The baby fat was gone from her cheeks, there was now a small wrinkle where her nose met her forehead, her ears were mo- 

“Earth to Jeremy,” said Flo, waving a hand in front of my face and interrupting my spiralling thoughts, “everything alright up there?”

I laughed it off, swallowing down my anxiety, and moved on with the paperwork. 

That night however, I went a little crazy. 

I spent hours in front of the mirror, going through every picture taken of me over the last few years and making comparisons. Apart from the depression clouding my expression in most of the older pictures, there wasn’t really much of a difference. No, scratch that, there was no difference at all. I wasn’t aging.

Matt found me a few hours later having a panic attack on the bathroom floor. 

His theory is that it isn’t that I’m not aging  _ per se _ , I’m just doing it very slowly. And I’m clinging to that explanation so, so hard. But I can’t help but wonder… What if he’s wrong? What if I really do stay alive forever?

A few months after we discovered my condition, we started a notebook where we wrote in detail every event relating to my immortality to try to figure out its rules and limitations. The front page looks a little like this:

**Rules of Jeremy’s Immortality**

  1. Jeremy cannot die, under any circumstances.
  2. When possible, the Universe will modify surroundings to prevent Jeremy’s death.
  3. The Universe cannot alter free will.
  4. If lethal injury would theoretically occur, all possibility of injury is then negated.
  5. The Universe will let anything/anyone be destroyed to prevent Jeremy’s death.
  6. Jeremy is immune to any kind of long lasting effect that would eventually result in death (e.g. illness, radiation).

The night of my freak out, I added another rule for the first time in years.

  1. These rules will remain in effect until the end of the world.

Okay, that’s off my chest, I’m done being dramatic. For now.

Let’s see, where was I? Oh yeah, I was passed out after failing to replace my blood with vodka. 

I woke up with a start and a shout the next morning when I was hit by downpour of ice cold water. The sudden freezing feeling zinged through my body like an electric shock, pushing all the air from my lungs in one go. Coughing and sputtering, I jumped up on wobbly legs, the strong jet of water now aimed at my chest. Squinting through the morning sun, I glared at Matt as he kept the garden hose pointed at me.

“I’m awake, you can sto-'' the rest of my sentence was lost in a gurgled protest when the water hit my face once again. “Dude, knock it off!”

Matt shrugged. “You had vomit in your hair.”

“Oh, gross,” I said, taking a look around. We were standing at the foot of the tree we’d spent the night in, the once earthy ground now soaked in puddles of watery vomit. I struggled not to gag. “This place smells like a rave bathroom.”

“Yeah, you can thank yourself for that.”

“What did I do?”

“You insisted on jumping off the treehouse. You kept saying that your last backflip sucked and that you could do better. Then you sort of just- flung yourself out the door and passed out on the floor.” Matt sprayed the ground, pushing the waves of soiled earth away. “I fell asleep after that, but I’m guessing you threw up during the night.”

Memories of the night before slowly came back to me as Matt spoke, my head throbbing more and more each second. I winced; everything felt moist and uncomfortable. My clothes oozed questionable liquids on my skin, my shoes squelched loudly with every move, and my mouth tasted like I’d spent the night making out with an alcoholic horse. I glanced down at my mud covered jeans and sighed. “Can you spray me again? I’ll take being wet over being wet and smelling like death.”

Matt did so without hesitation, almost too happy to comply. He tried to hide it, but I  _ know  _ I saw the bastard smile every time the water hit my face. 

Once my transformation into a drowned cat complete, we trekked back to the house. The field was quite large, and although my jeans and shoes still felt heavier than usual, I was mostly dry by the time the kitchen came into view. 

Having stared at it the entire way there, it finally occurred to me just how  _ huge  _ the farmhouse was. As far as I could tell, it consisted of only two floors, but spread over quite a large area, almost big enough to pass for a small school. Various sections had clearly been gradually added over the years, some made of wood, others of brick. There were large windows in every wall, and a chimney sticking out of each ill-fitted division. The place was charming in its own way, with climbing vines dressing up several of its sides and flower beds resting beneath almost every window.

“Come up with me,” said Matt as we walked through the kitchen, “I’ll let you borrow some mouthwash.”

I smacked my lips, frowning at the feeling of cotton mouth. “Thanks, man.”

“You’re welcome, but to be honest, I’m doing it more for my nose’s sake than for you.”

We had just begun walking up the stairs when a shout from the floor above stopped us in our tracks. “Wait!”said a familiar voice. “Let us go first, we are carrying  _ precious cargo! _ ”

At the top of the stairs stood three of Matt’s siblings, their identities hidden by the towers of dirty dishes balanced in their arms. They carefully climbed down the steps, one after another, the silverware shaking and clanking as they made their forward. I didn’t know the first kid that passed by us, but I recognized Sebastian as the second, and Benjamin as the third. 

The first two entered the kitchen, but Benjamin was stopped by Matt pressing a hand against his torso. “Hold it.” Benjamin sighed exaggeratedly and paused, peering over the stack of various plates and bowls in his hands. Matt met his gaze with a glare. “Explain.”

Benjamin shuffled, careful not to drop anything, looking up as if the ceiling was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room. “It was my turn to do the dishes last night.”

Matt raised an eyebrow as if to say  _ and? _

“And there was a new episode of Law and Order,” he continued, arms straining under the weight of the dishes, “so I may have forgotten to do them. And I didn’t have the time to, but I didn’t want dad to notice so... I may or may not have put them in my room in the meantime.”

Matt gave him an unimpressed look. “How’d you get them to help?” he asked, tilting his chin towards the kitchen.

Benjamin cringed. “I gave them each five dollars?”

Trying my best not to laugh, I watched as Matt’s soul left his body at the realization that Benjamin had used the money he was given just the day before as a bribe. He dragged a hand down his face. “Just- hurry up, before dad gets home.”

“Copy that!” said Benjamin, scuttling off into the kitchen.

I turned to Matt as we made our way upstairs. “You regretting anything yet?” 

“Hey, at least they’re actually doing the damn dishes.”

The second floor consisted of a long hallway that took sharp turns at each end, with multiple doors leading to the many bedrooms and bathrooms of the house. Matt led us into the closest bathroom, handing over a bottle of mouthwash from under the sink. Focused on the rhythmic swishing of the liquid in my mouth, I barely noticed Matt tilting his head in confusion. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” I said, somehow forgetting what I had _ just been doing _ and letting the mouthwash dribble out of my mouth.

Matt simply walked out of the room in lieu of answering, presumably going to investigate the noise. Spitting what was left in my mouth into the sink, I followed him down the hallway, inspecting my shirt for any mouthwash stains, and into what had to be the strangest bedroom I had ever seen.

The room’s decor was split right down the middle, each side having a completely different style to it. The right side was painted in a light violet colour, with fairy lights clipped to the walls and bed. Posters of at least a dozen different k-pop bands covered almost every available inch of the room’s right half, and the bed was hidden beneath a virtual mountain of plushies and pillows of all shapes and sizes. 

The left side of the room, on the other hand, was the polar opposite. The walls, the bed, the window frame, the small rug near the door- all of it was black. With the exception of a large white outline of a skull painted above the black dresser, the entire left side was uniformly dark. At the foot of the bed was a small stereo playing an edgy ballad and, curled in a ball at the head of it, was a crying teenage girl, dressed to match the decor. 

With a sigh, Matt sat beside the girl, his hand coming up automatically to pet her hair. The girl’s sobs grew in volume. 

Unsure of what to do, I leaned against the door frame and began counting the cracks in the floor. I didn’t deal well with people crying. It was worse with strangers. Even worse with kids. This was the peak of awkwardness and I would’ve gladly returned to the lake of vomit under the tree house if it meant I could get out of this situation. But as it was, all I could do was stand there and hope it would be over soon.

Obviously, that’s not what happened.

The girl’s cries had just begun to calm down when a voice resonated from downstairs. “Uh… Matt??”

With a deep sigh, Matt stood off the bed to join me near the door. “Yeah?” he yelled, his head sticking out into the hallway. 

“Could you come down here for a minute?” continued the voice. I didn’t recognize it, so I assumed it belonged to the third kid that had followed Benjamin and Sebastian into the kitchen. “It’s not, like, a big deal, but if you could hurry, that’d be great.”

Matt glanced back at the girl before answering back. “Can’t it wait a bit?”

There was some grubbling, followed by a shriek and the sound of someone falling down. “Just out of curiosity,” screamed Sebastian, voice cracking over the last word, “are window curtains dishwasher safe?”

Matt and I shared a confused expression. “Don’t you mean washing machine?”

“No.”

“I gotta go,” said Matt, tapping me on the shoulder with a determined look, “tag in.”

It took me half a second too long to realize he was talking about comforting the girl. “Wait, no, don’t leave me.”

But I was already talking to an empty hallway as Matt rushed to the kitchen. 

And then it was just me, a depressed goth girl, and my urge to jump out the window. 

“Hey…” I whispered, slowly approaching the bed, “how- how’re you doing?”

She lifted her face from her dark pillow to glare at me with leaked mascara sliding down her cheeks. “Life has no meaning and we’re all just gonna die.”

“I wish.”

She hiccuped a sob. “What?”

“Nothing, forget it.”

I knelt by her head. “Why don’t you tell me your name? I’m Jeremy.”

“Rebecca.”

“Alright, Rebecca,” I said, “tell me what’s up.” I was trying to sound soothing, but I’m pretty sure it just came out patronizing. Rebecca didn’t seem to notice.

“I got dumped.”

“Oh. Yeah, I’ve been there, it sucks.”

“It’s my fault too, yanno,” she continued, rolling onto her back. “I’m such a shitty person.” She burst into tears again, the entire bed shaking with her sobs.

“Oh come on, I’m sure that’s not true.”

“No, no, it is!” she wailed.

I sat on the floor, trying to think of what to say to make the crying stop. “I mean, maybe.” I winced as the tears got worse. Wrong choice, try again. “Why, uh, why don’t you try telling me what happened?”

Rebecca inhaled slowly and wiped her face with her sleeve. “I was dating this guy named Hayden.”

Before she could say anything else, a shout came from downstairs. “Holy fuck, it’s on the ceiling fan!” Matt screamed. “DUCK!” There was a loud crash, another shout, and then silence.

“Should we go make sure they’re okay?” I asked.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” said Rebecca, in a tone that suggested this happened often. “Anyway, Hayden.”

“Right.”

“He was a great guy, yanno? Always sat next to me at lunch, bought me cool music. He even rang the fire alarm that one time I got called into the principal’s office. But we were almost never alone, just the two of us. All our dates were “group hangs”, or whatever. Which, that was fun too, yanno? But it wasn’t…”

“Romantic?”

“Ew. But yeah, sure, whatever.”

The sobs had stopped, and she seemed much calmer, so I decided to keep her talking. “So what happened?”

Now, I’m going to do my best to repeat what she told me that day, but if I’m being completely honest, I still don’t really understand most of it. Both Rebecca and Matt keep telling me I’m just dense, and that this all makes perfect sense.

I think they’re both crazy enough to impress the screenwriters of Gossip Girl. To each his own opinion, I guess. 

But in this instance, I’m right.

Rebecca took a deep breath. “Well, in all the group hangs, Joshua was there. And he’s, just. So. Hot. Yanno? So I left Hayden, ‘cus I wanted Josh. But then Josh shot me down, ‘cus he’d made out with Kylene in the back of the gym before english, and he was gonna take her to the ‘Summer Under the Stars’ dance. Which, screw that, right? She’s a skank, and Josh can do so much better. So I asked Nick to the dance, ‘cus Joshua  _ hates _ him and I knew he’d get pissed off if he saw us together. But then Nick was like, weirdly happy? He’s such a nerd, usually, and he follows me around, giving me compliments and Snickers, or whatever. And we had an okay time together? Like, it was super weird, but also, kinda nice? I don’t know. Anyway, I wasn’t really thinking about Josh by the time we got to the dance, ‘cus, we had a good time, yanno? But then, that bitch Ronnie told Nick that I was just with him to piss off Josh? Which wasn’t even true at that point? So what the hell was her freaking problem? Anyway, Nick freaking  _ left me _ and ditched the dance. And I didn’t want to be that loser who goes to a dance alone, yanno? So I went to hang out with Hayden, ‘cus at that point I was, like, whatever. And then, the next day, Hayden came by at lunch to chill with me and Angel, which, alright? But then, he just started hanging with me again, and then he asked if we could get back together, and I didn’t wanna be alone, so I said yeah. And we were together for like, a week, and it was chill, yanno? But then earlier, I got a text from Ronnie telling me she saw him making out with someone in the gym. So I asked her who it was, and it was that  _ skank _ Kylene. And I’m so mad, yanno? But, like, at the same time, it’s my fault? I’m the one who just, left him there, and then, I just took him back? Like he was, like, leftovers or something.” She let out a deep exhale, rolling over in her bed, and groaned, face buried into her pillow once again. “This suuuuuuuuucks.”

I stared up at her, mouth slightly agape, trying to process the hurricane of information that had just hit me in the face, and praying the word “Snickers” wasn’t a weird sex euphemism I had never heard of. “So this Hayden guy, he- cheated on you?” 

“I guess, yeah. But, like I said, it’s my fault,” she said, eyes filling with tears once again, “I screwed up. I’m a bad person.” 

Panicked at the idea of her crying anymore than she already had, I scrambled to say anything comforting. “You know that’s not true, don’t be ridiculous.”

Rebecca peered at me from her pillow, fresh tears washing the dark streaks off her face. “How can you say that? You don’t even know me.”

“That’s true,” I conceded, “but I do know  _ some  _ things.”

“Like what?”

“Like-,” I glanced around the room, searching for clues about her life, “I can tell you stand by what you like. I mean, for the room to be split like this, you must have fought really hard for the whole goth look.”

“It’s emo, not goth.”

“Ah, sorry, my bad,” I said, unsure what the difference was. “You could’ve easily gone with the purple like your sibling did, but you stuck by your guns.”

“That’s because Exo,” she said with disdain, pointing at one of the kpop posters, “is just a band. Being emo is a whole lifestyle, yanno? My sister never got that.”

“See? You’re committed, and determined, and you stand up for what you believe. You may have made mistakes, but it’s no reason for this Hayden guy to cheat on you. He’s really missing out by not being with you.”

Rebecca gave me a weak smile. “You really think so?” she sniffled.

“Of course,” I said, relieved she felt better.

“Well would you look at that,” said Matt, his sudden appearance making me jump up in surprise. He was leaning against the door frame, his shirt soaked through and his hair and beard covered in bubbly soap. “You finally get it.”

“Get what? And what happened to you?”

“The cheating thing,” he answered, moving to sit back down on the bed. Rebecca immediately reacted, pushing him back before he could sit. “Nuh uh,” she said, “you’re gonna make my cover all wet. You can leave, I feel better now anyway. I gotta call Angel.”

Matt’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline. “You sure?”

“Yes!” she confirmed, pushing us out of the room. “Now go, I got stuff to do,” she said before closing the door, leaving no room for argument.

Silence reigned in the hallway, interrupted every second or so by the sound of Matt’s shirt dripping onto the floor.

“Did they put  _ you  _ in the dishwasher too?”

“Do you really still not get it?” said Matt, ignoring my comment.

I frowned at the realization that he was drawing parallels between Rebecca’s ex and my own. “That’s completely different. The context isn’t the same at all. I think. I mean her story was pretty compli-”

“In what way is it different?” interrupted Matt.

I froze, searching for an answer and coming up empty.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, wringing his soaked shirt with both hands. “C’mon, I’ll drive you home.”

****

The next day, I woke up to a text from Matt, suggesting potential meetup times over the next few days. The mere idea of having to  _ do _ anything at all over the next week exhausted me. I’d lived through some of the weirdest experiences of my life over the previous 48 hours, and my psyche was running on fumes. 

I delayed answering him, opting instead to stay in bed and screw around on my phone for the morning. I figured after jumping off a tall building (twice!) I deserved a break.

I only looked at my phone again many, many hours later, when the sun had begun to rise and my eyelids had turned to lead. Matt had given up making plans and had just told me to get back to him whenever I was available. I fell asleep at 4h30 in the morning, my face squished against my Reddit feed. 

The day after that was spent much in the same way as the last, with me relaxing and getting over my recent… self-discoveries. This time however, I received only one text from Matt, a meme about getting drunk with friends. I didn’t answer. 

And so, I was back on the rails of the downwards spiral that was depression.

The rest of the week was spent in radio silence, with only the occasional contact with my parents, who gave me food like a scared zoo keeper feeds an old lion. I slept a lot, waking up to the vaguest memories of having dreamt of something, something important, but unable to remember anything apart from brief flashes of shifting dust and starry skies.

All those days spent alone gave me time to think, and all those thoughts just gave me more and more reasons to stay by myself. 

What was the point of leaving my room anyway? Nothing I would do outside would do anyone any good. I didn’t have a job, I had no real hobbies to speak of, and school was a bump in the road that was long past the range of my rearview mirror. 

What else could I do? Try and fail to kill myself? To what end? And what if I ended up succeeding? Matt would’ve been with me at the time of my death, police would get involved, they’d ask him why he hadn’t done anything to help me. Maybe they’d even think he was the one responsible for my early end. And then what? I couldn’t let Matt spend his life in jail because I was too eager to leave the house. It all made perfect sense.

A few weeks after my last contact with Matt, I was awoken from my daily six hour nap by my dad flicking my forehead. “Get up! We’re going to the farmer's market!”

I groaned as I was dragged out of bed. “Can’t we go another time? I’m sure it’ll still be there.”

“Don’t be so sure. It closes for the winter on Halloween. That’s only five days away!”

That shocked the sleepiness out of my bones. Was it really October already? 

“Can I at least shower before we leave?” I felt and smelt like a zombie. I was sure I looked like one too.

He laughed, loud and forced. “So you can spend an hour using up all the hot water? No way, bucko. I know this song and dance, and I’m not falling for it. Come on, the fresh air will do you some good.” He flashed me his trademark salesman smile. “I’ll wait for you in the car. Hurry up, we’re losing daylight.”

The market was a tiring place to be. 

It was one large colourful tent, big enough to shelter dozens of fresh food stands, all owned by locals. The whole place was decorated for Halloween, with carved pumpkins and cheap ghost decorations in every available spot, and a large sign at the entrance that read “ **Have a BOOtastic Halloween!!!** ”. A lovely autumn breeze was blowing, a cacophony of pleasant conversation and laughter could be heard, and a delightful spicy smell filled the air, making the area radiate a friendly warmth. I hated all of it.

Our visit felt interminable. I lingered behind my dad as he oohed and aahed at the colourful displays of food, taking the time to smell every new product he came across. I found myself wishing for it to end faster with each step. 

He eventually paused at a stand of corn to haggle with the teen charged with the register. I stood beside him, an uncomfortable feeling settling in my stomach as the memories flooded my mind. I stared at the corn, and the corn stared right back, yellow and hairy and  _ mocking me _ . This whole place was laughing at me. 

Kids were drawing chalk butterflies and robots on the asphalt in between the stands. Customers were humming along to the radio that played throughout the market. Joyful old ladies were talking excitedly about the sale on fruit, gushing about all the desserts they would be baking. Some jackass in sweatpants was glaring at the vegetables- No, wait, that was me. The Scrooge of the farmer’s market, so disconnected from the rest of the world that he felt angry at people just for feeling things, and even angrier at  _ corn _ , of all things, for making him one of them.

I just couldn’t help it. I’d spent the last month turning the melancholy I felt into numbness, preferring an empty head over the knowledge that I was stuck here, in this crappy life, as this crappy person. And now, this stupid plant was bringing it all back. It weighed heavily in my gut, this bitter sadness that dulled my mind and killed my motivation.

“Hi.”

I looked up to see a small boy with thick black hair frowning at me from above the inclined vegetable stand. “Sebastian,” I said, immediately recognizing Matt’s little brother, “what are you doing here?”

He ducked back behind the stand to come meet me in the aisle. I was quickly reminded just how short Sebastian really was, him having to crane his neck almost all the way just to face me properly. “Are you sick,” he said. It was a question, but the total lack of inflection in his voice made it sound like an accusation.

“I’ll answer your question if you answer mine.”

“This is our stand,” he deadpanned, pointing at a large banner hanging a few feet away above the register. There, in large printed letters, read the words “Redford Family Farm”.

Right. Probably should’ve seen that one coming. 

I sighed at the stoic expression on the kid’s face. “I’m not sick. I’m just- not feeling well right now.”

“Are you going to die?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“W-what?” I spluttered. “No! What makes you think that?”

Sebastian shrugged. “Last year, they told us we couldn’t go see grandma anymore. They said it was because she wasn’t feeling well. Then she died.” He spoke very matter-of-factly, like someone would describe a mildly interesting fun fact they’d just learned. I distinctly remember my sister once telling me “apparently, giraffes have as many bones in their neck as we do” with the exact same tone.

I blinked down at him. “Doesn’t that make you sad?”

“Duh,” he said,rolling his eyes, “she was very nice. She made really good soup, and she always made enough for everyone.” He gave me a little smile. “She would help me sneak extra crackers from the cupboard.”

“You don’t seem very beat up about it, is all.”

“Being sad is okay. Always being sad is a waste of time.”

That… was an interesting take.

“So you’re not dying?” he asked again.

“No.”

“Then why do you look like that?”

I took a second to marvel at this kid’s lack of filter. “It’s complicated.” Not feeling up to explaining the intricacies of my declining mental health to a nine year old, I used the oldest cop out in the book. “Grown up stuff.”

He nodded pensively. “Okay, stay here.” He spun around and quickly retreated behind the corn stand.

I glanced around, weighing the pros and cons of just bailing, and realized my father had wandered off, nowhere to be seen. “Damn.”

Not ten seconds later, a familiar red headed girl was rounding the corner where Sebastian had vanished. Amy was squinting at me glaringly, arms crossed, a booted foot tapping rhythmically. “You suck.”

What the hell was wrong with these kids. “I’m sorry?”

“Yeah, you better be!” She stepped forwards, standing on her toes to point an angry finger against my chest. “You’re ignoring Mattie! Do you know how mean that is? What, you think that, just because you’re  _ tall _ , you can do whatever you want?”

“Uh- no?” I was beyond confused; I wasn’t quite sure what my height had to do with any of this. Not to mention the fact that Matt was a whole inch and a half taller than me. 

“Then what gives! Mattie thinks you hate him now.”

“He said that?”

“Well, no,” she said deflating a bit, “but I know my brother! You’re supposed to be his friend, but you don’t act like it, and that’s not cool.”

“Look, Amy, I’m not ignoring anyone, okay?” I said, suddenly feeling very defensive. “I’m just not up to socializing these days.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to talk to people.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been feeling… sad.”

“Why?”

God, talking with this kid was exasperating. “No reason. You’ve never been sad for no reason, just because?”

She paused, considering. “Sometimes, maybe. Like when I hear sad music, or when Seb wants to watch that movie about the bridge. But being sad is super boring. If I start feeling sad, I just go do something else. Moping around all day is a waste of time.”

I was beginning to understand where Sebastian got some of his ideas.

I heard my dad call my name from somewhere near the exit. I spun around and spotted him waving at me and pointing to the car. “Look, I gotta go,” I said, eager to end the conversation, “but uh, it was nice talking to you, yeah?”

I began walking away, not waiting for an answer. That wasn’t enough to deter Amy however. “You can’t just ignore people!” she shouted behind my back.

“Try me!”

I reached my dad and he handed me one of the many bags of corn he’d just purchased. “What did that little girl want? Is everything alright?”

I marched to the car, already anticipating another couch nap. “Couldn’t be better.”

It certainly couldn’t be any worse. 

****

It was around three in the afternoon the next day, with my mind blank, my eyes looking at but not seeing the Wii menu screen, the controller barely held in my limp grip, that I saw Matt again. He walked into my bedroom, and sat on the floor beside me without a word, reaching onto a pile of dirty laundry for the second remote. 

Never saying a word, he started up Super Smash Bros, forcing us into the character selection screen. Not wanting to snap out of the weird trance I seemed to be stuck in, I went along with whatever the hell was going on. I picked Ike.

Matt picked Ike, but yellow.

The match began. Matt kicked my ass in less than five minutes.

We went again. I picked Ness. He picked Ness, but yellow. The match ran a little longer, but not by much. I watched Yellow Ness do his victory animation, sighed, and went for another game.

It went like that for at least an hour. Kirby vs Yellow Kirby. Pit vs Yellow Pit. Doctor Mario vs Yellow Doctor Mario.

After what had to be our tenth match in complete silence, I finally dropped the controller as Matt selected yellow Diddy Kong. “Why are you doing this, man?”

He shrugged. “I like yellow.”

“No, I mean, why are you here?”

Matt flicked his gaze to me before quickly refocusing on the screen, letting the match begin. “My sister told me that she’d seen you, and that you weren’t feeling so hot.” The controller out of my hands, diddy Kong stood perfectly still, Yellow Diddy Kong using him as a punching bag to practice his combos on. “I was shocked to hear that the guy I found hysterically trying to shoot himself in my backyard seemed off, so I had to go see it for myself.”

“Ha ha, very funny.”

Diddy Kong flew off the screen and the announcer belted “GAME!”. Matt sighed and faced me for the first time since he’d stepped into my bedroom. “Dude, you’re clearly not fucking okay. And first I thought you needed space, but it’s been a month, and it’s getting pretty clear you can’t handle this shit by yourself.”

My first instinct was to get insulted. I opened my mouth to tell him off, to say that I could take care of myself just fine, but closed it again when I saw Matt’s expression. He didn’t seem patronizing, or condescending, or even mocking. He looked concerned, like someone taking care of a sick friend. I swallowed, my lungs made of stone and my throat painfully dry. “It’s nice of you to care, but it doesn’t matter, not really. My life, it’s garbage. And I’m stuck in it. I can’t change it, and I can’t leave it. This,” I said, gesturing at the goblin cave that was my bedroom, “is it. Forever.”

“Bullshit. There are so many things you can do. Your whole life they tell you you gotta be careful, that you're young but you're not invincible. But  _ you _ actually are.”

I frowned. “What are you even saying.”

“That you’re not stuck, you can make your life really worth living. I'm saying that there's no limit for you, you can do  _ literally _ whatever.” He smiled, confident. “What's something you’ve always wanted to do?”.

The answer was immediate. “Get a motorcycle. My sister's husband is a nurse, and he's told me so many biking accident horror stories. At the hospital, they call motorcycle drivers ‘organ donor machines.’”

Matt grimaced, but quickly recovered. “Then we’ll get you a bike!”

“Neither of us work. How would we even pay for it?”

His smile turned devious. “You’re a man who can't die. I can think of a few ways.”

  
  
  
  
  



	4. Flags and Knocks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how's the world treating ya today?

I was wearing jeans for the first time in over a month and hating every second of it. Compared to comfortable sweats, this felt like wearing cardboard. But Matt had insisted, saying I needed to dress nice for “the plan” to work as he dragged me into his truck. He’d told me he was going to make me have fun, get me out of the house and back on my feet for good. 

At the time, I felt too apathetic to ask for more details. I put on my dark jeans and the only button up I owned. My head only had room from one thought and that thought would never get more elaborate than “sure, whatever”. 

Resting my head against the passenger window, I stared blankly at the woodsy scenery as five minutes turned into ten, then twenty-five. At the forty-five minute mark, with thirty of those spent along a mostly empty highway, I couldn’t help but get curious. “Are you taking me out to the woods to kill me?”

Matt snorted. “I thought about it, but I don’t think I’d get very far.”

“So where are we going?” 

He adjusted his hands on the steering wheel, looking uncomfortable. “I’ll tell you when we get there.” He turned on the radio, resolutely looking straight ahead, and I decided not to push any further. The constant rattling of the window against my skull had just begun to feel painful when the truck finally slowed down. I straightened in my seat as we pulled into the parking lot of a- 

“Why did you bring us to a gift shop?”

He swallowed and kept his gaze fixed on the dashboard. 

Waiting for an answer, I turned my attention back to the building, neighborless save for the miles of trees surrounding it. It was a small square store made of stained brown brick, with two barred up windows on either side of its front door. A flickering neon “open” sign was visible through the glass. On its roof, hard to look at through the bright light of the setting sun, were stacked red block letters, much too big for the building they rested on, arranged to form the words “Flower And Gift Shop”. The parking lot, mostly occupied by motorcycles and large trucks, reeked of gasoline and cigarettes. Loud chattering mixed with notes of classic rock could be heard from inside the shop.

The overall picture was… confusing. Matt’s silence continued, his eyes vacant, lost in thought. 

“Matt,” I said slowly, “why are we here?”

That seemed to bring him back down to Earth. He blinked and shifted to face me, confidence renewed. “This,” he said, pointing out the windshield, “is the Flag Shop. I used to spend a lot of time here, back when our kid to money ratio was harder to handle. It’s far enough from home to never get recognized and far enough from everything else to not have any regulars. Truckers and bikers and shit come here, but they’re all just passing by and most of them never come back twice.”

If possible, I was even more confused than before. “Why does that matter?”

“Because we’re here to scam people.”

I blinked. “I’m sorry, we’re here to do  _ what _ ?”

“When I was an edgy fourteen year old, I got really into knife throwing. As it turns out, that crap makes me really fucking good at darts.” He grimaced. “I’d come here, pretend to suck, act like a little shit, get some asshole biker to make a bet, then win and take his money.”

“So we’re here to play darts?”

“No,” he said with a smirk, “we’re here to drink these fucks under the table.”

“Oh,” I said, everything clicking into place, “this isn’t a shop. It’s a bar.”

  
  


****

The interior of the Flag Shop was painfully stereotypical. Its walls and floors were made of slats of dark wood. Its low ceiling lamps covered the sticky tables and booths with yellow light. The bar itself took up most of the far left wall, leaving space on its right for its patrons and, at the back, for a few overused dartboards and a large speaker. The place was filled with men in jeans and leather jackets, here too early to be drunk but too loud and rowdy to be considered sober.

The only thing stopping the Flag Shop from being cartoonishly predictable was its decor. It clearly had been, at some point in time, a gift shop, and the new owner had simply used its old inventory to decorate the bar.

Along the walls hung cheap signs found in any tourist trap, most notably “Man Cave Rules” and “Unicorn Crossing”. Someone had stapled a “My grandparents went to New York and all I got was this lousy t-shirt” shirt near the front door next to dangling rows of keychains of America’s most common first names. Stuck to the wall behind the register was a Big Mouth Billy Bass. 

I took all of this in from my spot in one of the more isolated booths, doing my best to control my steadily growing nervousness. I had just noticed the snowglobes placed alongside the shelved booze behind the bar when something occurred to me. “Matt?”

“Yeah?” He’d just returned from the counter, carrying with him two bottles of cheap beer. 

“You said you came here years ago?”

“Uh huh,” he said, distractedly observing the other patrons.

“How is that even possible? You’re not even 21 yet.”

“Oh, the owner at the time didn’t give a shit about that,” he said, brushing the hair from his face. “It’s not the same guy anymore, but the new bartender didn’t card me either, so I guess we’re cool.” He paused, frowning. “Actually, could you go see them? Make sure they don’t cut you off.”

“You’re really serious about this.”

He nodded.

I shook my head. “I mean, I want to believe you, but I really don’t think this can work.”

“Dude, you’re gonna be fine, your metabolism is fucking insane,” he insisted, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Back at the tree house, I was barfing out the window seventeen shots in, and you didn’t even gag until you hit thirty!”

I let my eyes slide back to the bar, then did a double take. “Wait, you threw up too? I thought you said the vomit lake was all my fault!”

“I helped a bit,” he said, shrugging, “but you did most of the heavy lifting on that one.”

Before I could protest anymore, Matt pushed me out of the booth, repeating that I should go talk to the bartender. Stumbling my way past the tipsy crowd, I reached the girl behind the cash register. Despite being the only employee present, she didn’t appear to be in any rush. If anything, she looked bored, leaning against the counter, eyes fixed on a coverless book. Her dark clothes matched her hair, tied in a bun with two braids hanging loosely against her ears.

Seeing me approach the bar, she clicked her tongue, annoyed, before putting her book out of view. “What can I get ya?”

Nervous and desperate not to let it show, I decided to get straight to the point. “Do you cut people off here?”

“I’m not in the business for vomit clean up, so yeah.”

Unsure how to convince her otherwise, I glanced around, scrambling for an idea, when the small glass jar next to the register caught my eye. Filled with a few ones and some loose change, a large sticker covered its front on which someone had written in sharp angular letters “ _ Adelaide thanks you for your tip _ ”.

I looked back up at the woman who I assumed to be Adelaide. “I’ll tip you 10% of what I make tonight if you don’t cut me off.”

Raising an eyebrow, she let her gaze sweep up and down my frame, calculating, making me shuffle on the balls of my feet. “Make it fifteen.”

I smiled, relieved. “Deal.”

I turned to get back to my seat when she spoke again. “Keep in mind,” she said, her face betraying no particular emotion, “the fastest an ambulance ever got here is forty-two minutes.”

I swallowed, walking away after a sharp nod.  _ I’m so fucked _ .

“So?” asked Matt as I slid back into the booth.

“We’re good,” I said, my voice cracking on the last word.

He didn’t seem to notice. “Awesome.”

Our conversation was stopped by the sound of glass shattering. “SON OF A BITCH,” roared a voice from further into the bar, “look what you made me do!”

The noise attracted Matt’s attention like a magnet, and his smile widened. 

A large burly man stood from his table, plaid shirt dripping spilled beer, anger deforming his scruffy features. “I’m getting another one, and it’s on you,” he barked before making his way to the counter. 

Matt bounced up from his seat, chasing after him, practically giddy. Regretting all the life decisions that had led me to this point, I scooted at the edge of the booth, watching Matt. Seeing him go triggered my fight or flight response.

The man grunted at Adelaide in lieu of an actual order just as Matt came to rest against the bar, as close to him as he dared. Winking at Adelaide, he asked, “Can I have another beer? And a sapphire martini from my friend over there.”

The reaction was immediate. The man scoffed, shaking his head.

Matt leaned in. “Something wrong, buddy?”

“This ain’t the place for people like you,” he sneered.

“Sure it is.”

“Not with that kind of drink.”

“It’s stronger than beer,” said Matt with a shrug.

“That don’t matter,” the man grunted, his temper clearly influenced by the alcohol in him. “This bar’s for men, and whoever’s drinking that shit ain’t no man.”

The fact that the person serving him his Man Drinks tm  was a woman seemed to have escaped him. Matt smirked. “If you think drinking that watered down cat piss you call beer makes you less of a pussy than the rest of us, you’re further up your own ass than you look.”

A strange sort of silence fell over the bar, the oppressive tension kept at bay by the faint sounds of classic rock. Everyone turned their attention to the bar, the anticipation of a fight keeping the crowd’s eye glued to Matt. The man took a step towards him, the floor creaking loudly beneath his weight as he glared him down. “You think you’re tougher than me? Think I can’t handle hard shit, sissy boy?”

“Obviously,” he said, radiating cockiness, “you can’t even stand straight. I bet even my martini friend over there,” he tilted his chin my way, “could outdrink you without even trying.”

The man spotted me from the edge of the bar and let out a loud laugh. “That faggot? You’re kidding right?”

For a second, Matt’s arrogant persona wavered, just a bit. He frowned, and the man’s smile turned shark-like. I winced internally; if I had learned anything in high school, it was to never,  _ ever _ react to that word. “What’s wrong” he asked, mocking Matt’s earlier tone, “not so sure all the sudden?” 

Matt squared his jaw, expression twisting with anger. He seemed two seconds away from throwing a punch, mad in an intense way that felt distinctly- off. It seemed out of character, reacting so viscerally to something so small. It was only when Matt’s eyes met mine over the man’s shoulder that I understood why. 

Matt was faking it.

Pretending  _ he _ was the one making a rash decision and letting his emotions get the better of him. He’d pushed the man to say something harsh, then pretended to be more affected than he really was. Now the man believed he had the upper hand.

All I had to do was prove him wrong.

“Think you’re tough,” Matt said, the words escaping his mouth through gritted teeth, “then fucking prove it. Shot contest. Winner gets his drinks paid and 200 bucks. Loser pays up and never shows his face here again.”

The man seemed to hesitate, all too aware of his audience. He couldn’t back down now. “Against you?”

Matt shook his head. “Against him.”

I swallowed as all eyes turned to me. The man straightened, confidence renewed. “I ain’t gonna turn down easy cash.”

****

Knock!

Knock!

Knock!

The sound of empty shot glass after empty shot glass hitting the table was the only thing I could focus on. The alcohol was forming a lava pit at the bottom of my stomach, burning through my chest and up my throat. I ignored it as I continued to drink.

Knock!

I was vaguely aware of my surroundings. I was sitting across from my opponent, Matt sitting not far behind me, the rest of the bar standing around, watching with drunken interest. Adelaide remained silent, refilling our glasses as the game went on. 

Knock!

My thoughts were running away from me. I tried spelling out the word yacht in my head, just to see if I was sober enough to do it. I was not.

Knock!

_ God _ , I thought,  _ I’m such a dumbass, can’t even spell the name of a boat. I bet my fifth grade teacher would be disappointed in me. Meh, doesn’t matter, she sucked. The class lizard died under her watch. That’s right, I’m onto you Mrs Turner, I know you’re responsible for Squiggly’s death, you mon- _

Knock!

I was losing track of how many shots I’d swallowed. I knew the crowd had cheered when we’d hit some sort of checkpoint, but I couldn't have told you what that was for the life of me. It didn’t really matter anyway. All I needed to do was win. I had entered this weird sort of trance, concentrating on nothing but the task at hand.

Deep breath.

Drink.

Knock!

Repeat.

My vision was blurring around the edges, my head was heavy, my mouth tasted like rubbing alcohol, and I kept going. I wasn’t quite sure what I was drinking, either. It was clear. It was probably vodka. Or maybe tequila?  _ I could ask Adelaide when we were done, I’m sure sh- _

TONK!

I was jerked out of my thoughts as the crowd began cheering around us. The loud noise had been the man collapsing on the table, too intoxicated to remain conscious. Matt grinned proudly at me and I did my best to smile back before falling back into my chair with a groan. I won.

Through my drunken haze I watched the patrons laugh, then whine as Adelaide made everyone clear out. I went to get up and leave with the rest of them, but soon realized I could no longer move any of my limbs, all of them now weighing a tone. 

“Matt,” I called out, although it sounded more like a pitiful bark than his name.

He leaned over my chair, still smiling. “What’s up buddy?”

“We should’ve bet 300,” I slurred. Then promptly passed out.

***

When I woke up, I was still sitting at the table, head resting on my crossed arms, and everything sucked. My shoulders hurt, my eyes burned, my ass felt numb. The very idea of getting up made me want to groan. Trying to move after binge drinking should be an olympic sport. The room was spinning and my own pulse was giving me a headache. How the hell was I simultaneously drunk  _ and _ hungover?

There were people chatting near me, and it took a few seconds of concentration to decipher what they were saying.

“That was impressive.”

“What can I say, my boy’s got a killer liver.”

The first voice was familiar, bored and a touch sarcastic. The second was obviously Matt.

“Right. You’re sure he doesn’t need an ambulance?”

The fuzzy memory of Adelaide came back to mind as I recognized her as the first speaker. Matt was quick to deny the offer. “NO! I mean,” he coughed “no no, he’s fine, he’s seen worse, don’t worry about him.”

“Aw man, I really wish I could’ve been there,” said a third voice. Now this one was definitely new, high and sweet. “Why didn’t you call me sooner, Addy?”

Adelaide simply hummed.

“So selfish,” teased the voice, “keeping the fun shifts to yourself!”

Another hum. 

My eyes cracked open. There was Matt, leaning against the bar, talking to Adelaide, who was standing next to... an exact copy of herself.  _ Dear God _ , I thought, blinking rapidly,  _ I’m more trashed than I thought _ . Then the copy opened her mouth, and out came the sweet voice I’d heard before. “Do you guys plan on doing that again?”

I squinted, willing the blurriness out of my eyes, and Adelaide 2.0 came into focus. Okay, the second girl wasn’t an  _ exact _ copy of the first, but it was pretty damn close. Apart from a few purple highlights and slightly different pants, the two were identical. They had the same sharp jaw and the same flat nose, both their eyes the colour of... black. I was sure I could think of something more fitting sober. The two had to be twins. 

A sudden feeling of nausea overtook me and I had to force back down the vomit that bubbled up through my throat. My eyes watered and my breathing halted. I let out a choked cough, strong enough to rock my whole body, and did my best not to barf on my shoes. Not a second later, Matt was leaning by my chair, hands gripping onto my shoulders. “Hey buddy, easy now, siddown.” 

Feeling dizzy, I took a few deep breaths and looked around the bar for the first time since waking up. The place was deserted. “Where did everybody go?” I slurred, blinking the tears out of my eyes. “How long was I out?”

“About thirty minutes. After you passed out, the bartender made everyone clear out.”

I frowned, my brain still swimming in vodka. “But we’re still here.”

Before Matt could respond to that, a fresh glass of water was pressed against my chest. Accepting it with an unsteady hand, I looked up at Adelaide, grateful but confused.

“No vomit,” she simply said, a reminder of our earlier conversation, before stepping back again.

“Thanks,” I croaked, swallowing as much as I could in one go, pushing past my urge to gag. I needed the taste of booze out of my mouth.

“We’re still here,” said Matt, “because Adelaide here wanted to have a chat with you, and that’s hard to do when you’re fucking out of it. She said we could wait it out here.”

“Huh,” was all I could say. As the events of the evening slowly but surely came back to me, I couldn’t help but laugh. “‘Sissy boy’,” I chuckled, “he called you ‘sissy boy’.” 

It wasn’t until I saw the look of concern disappear from his face that I realized Matt had actually been a bit worried. He flashed a relieved smile. “These guys are always so easy,” he said, shaking his head, “all you gotta do is fuck with their  _ manliness _ and they lose their shit.”

I scoffed through the pounding in my head. “What did you want to talk about?” I asked the girls over Matt’s shoulder.

Adelaide simply stared from her spot against the bar while her sister spoke up animatedly. “Right! First of all, hi! I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Annette!”

“Jeremy,” I said with a weak wave. 

Her smile dimmed a few watts before returning full force. It happened so fast, I doubted it had actually happened. “Nice to meet you conscious!” She laughed. “I know this is a bit sudden and a lot weird, but we had to ask. Do you think you can do this again? The betting thing? Like, maybe once a week or so.”

I blinked. 

“Uh,” said Matt, clearly as surprised as I was.

“It would be mutually beneficial! We would allow you to do whatever you need-”

“Within reason,” interrupted Adelaide.

“-and you could make as much money as you can!”

That  _ was  _ a weird request. “What do you get out of it?” I asked.

Adelaide smirked, holding something up between her fingers. I nodded in understanding. Matt huffed. “You took his damn wallet”

I hesitated, uneasy. For her to seem so satisfied with herself, she had to know what to do with the guy’s stuff, and I doubted much of it was legal. Noticing my discomfort, she reached into the wallet and handed me a stack of bills. “Congrats. You made 550 dollars.” I reached for it with a shaky hand, eyes the size of dinner plates.

“Holy shit,” said Matt, smiling wide, “that’s more than twice what we were going for.”

“Not a lot of places take card around here,” explained Annette, “so most of these guys carry a lot of cash. Cool, right?” Before any of us could agree, she continued. “It’ll be like a magic show. You guys are the right hand moving the wand around, and we’ll be the left doing the actual trick.”

I was drunk, but I wasn’t stupid. They were asking us to be a distraction so they could steal from their own clientele. The worst part was, I couldn’t really criticize them for it. Afterall, hadn’t Matt and I come here to basically do the same thing?

“So?” said Adelaide, raising an eyebrow.

I was still debating the pros and cons of committing larceny as a weekly hobby when Matt spoke up. “We’re in.”

Annette squeaked, delighted. “Awesome!”

I glared at Matt. He shrugged back, clearly not regretting his decision of dragging me into more nonsense. I supposed I did owe him. 

“We’re throwing a special event on Halloween! It starts at nine, think you guys can make it?”

Matt grabbed my shoulder, grinning proudly. “Hell yeah.”

Halloween. That was less than four days away. I wondered if I’d be able to sober up in time. 

****

I spent the ride back home with my head sticking out of the car window like a dog. I didn’t want to risk throwing up on the dashboard. I could feel Matt driving slower than he normally would, most likely trying to limit the truck’s constant rattling for my sake. With the cool wind in my hair and the soft music coming from the radio, the drive went by in a flash. In no time at all, Matt was parking the truck in front of my house.

“You sober enough to walk in by yourself?”

I nodded. “Before I forget,” I began, reaching into my pocket, “here’s your half.”

The stack of bills landed on Matt’s lap with a muted thud. He looked at it with surprise, then at me with confusion. “We did this to get  _ you _ money, man, you don’t have to do this.”

“You drove me around for three hours, almost got beat up by a drunk trucker, negotiated with people who I’m pretty sure are experienced criminals, and watched my back the whole time.” I smiled. “I think I  _ do _ have to do this.” Before he could protest, I opened the door and climbed out of the truck. 

I was halfway up my driveway when I heard Matt calling me through the passenger window.

“Hey Jeremy!”

“Yeah?” I said, turning around.

He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then, “Goodnight.”

Offering him a mock salute, I made my way inside, eager to no longer be awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we still alive babeyyyy


End file.
